


New Directions

by walkwithursus



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 03:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18044234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus
Summary: Howard is tormented by a thunderstorm and the betrayal of his closest friend. Vince is equally as disturbed.





	New Directions

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place following the events of _Journey to the Center of The Punk._ Written in 2013.

There was thunder outside, and Howard felt restless. Through the dirty window of his cramped bedroom he saw the night sky light from black to purple, over and over again. Every few seconds a new flash of lightning illuminated his hard scrubbed room, casting shadows on the peeling wallpaper.

It made him uneasy.

Howard Moon didn't care for storms. Never had. The growling clouds and flickering sky kept him up late, although that wasn't all that was keeping him up. Suffice it to say, the weather outside reflected the turmoil within. Deep down, Howard felt anxious. He sat up in bed, lie back down, then sat up again. He glanced wistfully at the book on his bureau, **A Brief History of Scat in Jazz.** The bookmark lay about 180 pages in, but his stomach churned at the thought of cracking it open. He'd done a horrible thing today. He, Howard Moon, had betrayed jazz.

_For a good cause,_ a voice reminded him. _It would have killed Vince if you hadn't._

Howard breathed a deep sigh. He picked up his book and stared gently at the cover. Timidly he leafed through the worn, perfumed pages. It smelled of simpler times. Before this afternoon, before he'd tried to kill the rogue jazz cell. He'd been happy before.

How did he feel now?

 _Angry,_ he decided. Howard thought about what Vince had said, about internalizing his anger. It was unhealthy. Howard glanced down at his arm. Tentatively he brushed back the sleeve of his pajamas. The skin was raw, and tiny pinpricks of blood pooled at his pores where he'd rubbed in a Chinese burn. Howard felt queasy looking at it and quickly brushed the sleeve back down, massaging his arm guiltily.

He wasn't angry at himself, yet he decided he was deserving of injury. Howard threw his book on the floor, but felt no better. He bit his lip. Lightning danced in his eyes. Unable to bare the flashes any longer, he threw back the covers and left his room, heading for the tiny kitchenette in the flat above Naboo's shop.

It was dark when Howard arrived there. He grabbed a glass from the overhead cupboard and held it under the faucet. He wasn't really thirsty. He wasn't hungry either. The water was cold, though, and helped shake him from the numbness that had set in. Howard had two cups, switched off the faucet and placed the glass in the sink.

"Howard?"

Lightning from the far windows lit up the large room. Howard was thankful he'd set the glass down, otherwise he'd have dropped it. Instead he yelped and smacked his funny bone against the edge of the counter. He crumpled at the waist, the pain rendering him speechless.

When the tingling had passed Howard glanced up. Vince was sitting quietly on the couch, his legs tucked under him. His lips were pressed together softly, and his eyes gawked in their sockets, massive as ever.

"Having a laugh?" Howard snapped, standing upright and clutching his injured forearm. He instantly regretted his tone and mumbled something mildly apologetic under his breath to appease his guilt. His eyes touched Vince once, twice, darting away frequently, to the ceiling, to the corners, seeking sanctuary from the gaze of his friend, who was almost invisible in the soft darkness.

"Alright?" Vince asked. He was wearing a baggy green tunic, lacy around the loose collar with lighter green bell-bottoms. Little green moccasins poked out from under his thighs, squashed beneath his awkward crisscross position. His hair was barely wavy; it had been a few hours since he'd straightened it, and it had been slept on. His expression was sober.

"Fine. Thanks." Howard cleared his throat and drummed his fingers against the counter. Silence stretched between them as the thunder rolled on outside. Having nothing more to say, Howard turned to leave the room.

"I'm sorry, Howard."

More silence, but Howard had hesitated.

"Sorry for what?" He muttered at last. 

Bright yellow light suddenly filled the spacious room, making Howard blink furiously. Vince had switched on a lamp. He had one hand tangled in his hair, pulling at a few locks, stretching them down over his ears. "I'm sorry I broke the record. I wish I hadn't."

Howard thought back to that morning. The joy he'd experienced, having a treasure in his hands after twenty years of waiting, soon stolen from him. Vince's punk friends swam before his eyes. He could see it all clearly. The way they'd mucked about the shop, touching merchandise, rearranging Stationary Village, spreading their germs. The listless way they had tossed around his prized record, ignoring his pleas and mocking the tears in his eyes. And then, miraculously, it was handed off to Vince. His friend Vince, a man Howard trusted - at least as much as he had ever trusted anyone - the same man who would betray that trust in the blink of an eye. Twenty years down the drain without even an apology.

Well, there was an apology. Howard didn't want to look up at Vince. His heart was throbbing, and he could feel the lump in his throat pulse with every bitter beat. When he finally spoke his voice was thick. "Yeah, well," he cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"I mean it Howard," Vince pressed on. Howard heard the couch creak as Vince shifted his weight. "Really, I mean it. And thank you. For saving my life, I mean."

What else did Howard want to hear? To be completely honest, he wasn't sure anything Vince had to say could ease the pain he felt. He finally allowed himself to look up. Vince was staring straight at him, leaning forward.

"A thousand euros, it was," Howard managed hollowly. The money was unimportant, but for some reason he felt he had to say it, to really drive the point home. As soon as he did he felt guilty. "But uh, it's too bad about the band."

"Yeah," Vince agreed quietly. "I don't really need them though, I'll make it on my own. Besides, punk's not really my style. In fact, I've come up with a new idea. Something really special, something no one's ever done before." There was a sparkle in Vince's eye as he followed this new train of thought. "Of course, you're part of it Howard. You're an integral piece in my musical vision."

Howard laughed dryly.

"I'm serious. Forget punk. Together we'll head in a new musical direction. We'll start a revolution. We'll go down in history! With my connections and your musical ability, it won't be long before we have girls knocking down the door day and night." Vince picked a ceramic bowl up off the coffee table. He spooned some ice cream out of it and kicked back, looking off in what Howard could only assume to be the direction of the future.

"Sounds great," Howard said for lack of anything better. Vince was very far away now, nigh unreachable in the midst of his fantasy. Howard started for his bedroom door, switching the lamp off as he went. "I'll just leave you to it, then."

Vince's voice caught him just outside his bedroom. "Goodnight, Howard."

"Goodnight, Vince." Howard called, and he locked the door behind himself. 

Alone again at last, Howard drew the curtains over his window and slept easier that night.


End file.
